


i blame it all on who made you irresistible

by flirtingwithtrackers



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Roommates, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtingwithtrackers/pseuds/flirtingwithtrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>clarke and bellamy share a tent and things get a little <i>in tents</i> ba dum tsssss</p>
<p>or, the one where bellamy sees clarke undressed and his mind wanders</p>
            </blockquote>





	i blame it all on who made you irresistible

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO I AM VERY PROUD OF THIS FIC AND I THINK IT MAY BE MY FAVE WRITTEN SO FAR
> 
> the biggest of shoutouts for [lackingstealth](http://lackingstealth.tumblr.com) for being the best beta ever
> 
> she even gave me the title, which is from the song 'undertow' by sara bareilles
> 
> hop e you guys enjoy!!!

They’ve been sharing a tent for a few months now. It was just easier, especially since Clarke spent more time in his tent anyways, spending long nights going over guard shifts, scheduling hunting and foraging parties, trying to figure out how to deal with the grounders. And when she wasn’t in her tent, she was in the medbay. Whenever a patient was bad enough, she’d just sleep in an empty cot so she could wake up every few hours and check on them. Clarke had even moved a few things into Bellamy’s tent because it was closer to the medbay. Her tent had become storage, really, a place for Clarke to keep all of her meager belongings and some of Raven’s many projects and toys.

One particularly bad week when the flu hit camp, Bellamy had made a joke when he found her taking a power nap sitting at his makeshift desk—“May as well move in, Princess. You’re already sleeping here.” And he wasn’t wrong, that hadn’t been the first time she had accidentally fallen asleep in his tent. The surprise on his face was obvious when she agreed, but he never took it back. Now they share a tent, both of their cots settled on opposite walls and the desk against the back wall settled between them.

Clarke’s clothes are thrown around the tent, her only spare bra currently hanging off a post by her bed. Her jacket is strewn across the only chair in the room and her socks liter the floor whenever she isn’t wearing them. Bellamy has tripped over her boots more than a few times when he comes to bed later than her (and maybe a few times in the light of day, too). Bellamy is surprisingly tidier than Clarke would have expected. “What’s wrong with a little chaos?” rings in her ears every time she sees the small pile of his belongings in the corner of the room, all his spare clothes and blankets stacked neatly next to his bed, and she has to stifle a chuckle.

Clarke has a collection of belongings that sits on the left corner of the desk. There’s a small cup, long in diameter and small in width, that she likes to use as a vase. Sometimes when Monty brings her new herbs and plants to experiment with, she takes the pretty ones that are less useful to put in her vase. Okay, and a few times Bellamy brought her some flowers, explaining how he thought they were another plant but didn’t realize they weren’t until it was too late and they were already back at camp. _Wouldn’t want them to go to waste, right?_ (Eventually he stops presenting them to her and just puts them into the vase for her to find when she finally makes her way back to their tent later in the day.)

The maps that Clarke has drawn for them have an almost permanent space on the middle of their shared desk, held down by small rocks and a few pieces of scrap metal when it’s windy outside.

Bellamy has books stacked on his side of the desk, the very few he and Clarke were able to find in old bunkers and settlements. Not all of them are legible, some pages damaged by water or insects that have eaten away at the pages, but Bellamy loves the feel of a book in his hand, likes running his fingers over the spine. Clarke has noticed that he absentmindedly fiddles with the pages whenever he’s sitting at the desk, usually when he’s lost in his own thoughts and she has to place a hand on his shoulder to bring him back.

She’s noticed that Bellamy likes to read late at night, a candle in one hand and the book in the other. His favorite to read is _East of Eden_ by John Steinbeck, even though he only has the first 200 or so pages attached to the spine. He also has a copy of _Netter's Concise Orthopaedic Anatomy_ , with only a few of the pages ripped out. Even though Clarke primarily uses it, sometimes even copying diagrams out of it, Bellamy still likes to read what he can make out on the brittle pages, grateful for the opportunity to learn something. They also found a copy of a children’s book, but the colors of the illustrations are faded, the entire book leached into a sepia tone. Bellamy takes it over to the big tent most of the younger kids share sometimes and makes up a story to go along with the few images that can be made out.

It’s possible that Clarke talked to Raven about making a sort of solar-powered lantern that he can use so he doesn’t have to strain his eyes so much, but she’d never admit it. Regardless, it sits on his side of the desk whenever it’s not sitting outside their tent charging. Okay, and Bellamy lets her borrow it whenever she’s working on a sketch late at night, the inspiration tingling in her fingertips. She’s pretty sure he watches her sometimes, watches how her fingertips grip the small piece of charcoal, how her hands sweep across the page. Clarke usually ends up leaving the lantern on her bed, forcing Bellamy to search the tent for it later that day.

There is one book in particular that holds no use whatsoever, as it is written entirely in French (or so they believe, with _Le ravissement_ as the only legible words on the cover). Clarke draws over the faded pages, but only after Bellamy finally convinced her that she’s allowed to do something she enjoys and _no_ , it’s not a waste of resources unless one of the delinquents miraculously learns French. So Clarke uses the foreign novel as a sketchbook of sorts. At first, she starts drawing all the delinquents—each page is devoted to two or three of them as she tries to draw them as accurately as she can. Clarke also attempts to draw the faces of the many kids they lost, though most of them are incomplete. Some pages are covered entirely in drawing of plants and herbs that Clarke and Monty like to collect, accompanied by a physical description as well as their properties and uses medicinally. Each of these pages is dog-eared for reference, making them easy to find in a time of crisis. Clarke also enjoys drawing landscapes, especially on the few breaks they allow themselves when they are out on surveillance rounds in the forest or hunting and foraging for the day—beautiful waterfalls, lakes, sunsets, all drawn in monochromatic charcoal.

She’s also done a few drawings for Bellamy. He always tells the kids these stories of mythical figures and creatures from the Greek myths his mother told him and Octavia as children. Clarke had Bellamy describe them in as much detail as he could and she tried to capture the legends on paper. Most of these she ripped out of the book and gave to him once they were finished—portraits of the great goddesses Athena, Artemis with her bow and arrow, the matronly Hestia. She even attempted to draw some of the creatures, the three-headed guard dog of the underworld and the terrifying sirens of _The Odyssey_.

In one bunker, they had found a mirror, a rarity since they can only really see their reflections in the still water of lakes and puddles. Clarke kept it to herself for a few days, waiting until Bellamy went to sleep before trying to draw a self-portrait, trying to document the changes in her appearance in a way she can’t seem to do for herself internally. She tried again and again, ripping out page after page when she was unable to look at the poor attempts. Bellamy found a sheet balled up under his bed one morning, opening it to find a version of Clarke, her hair down, her face neutral. It’s pretty accurate depiction except for the nose, which is a little too broad. He folded it up after smoothing it out and put it into his pocket. At night he keeps it tucked under the leg of his cot.

After sharing the space for so long, Bellamy and Clarke have finally found a working routine. They tend to wake up around the same time, get dressed, backs facing one another, before heading out to get started on their respective jobs for the day, with Clarke usually in the medbay and Bellamy organizing the guard. The first few weeks hadn’t been so smooth—it was a small tent and Clarke had never really noticed just how tall Bellamy is, how broad his shoulders are. She’d run into him in the narrow space between their beds reaching for her long sleeve shirt or trying to find her boots under her cot, knocking herself off balance. Or he’d accidentally step on her foot on the way out, mumbling a small apology as his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. But they’re used to each other now, seamlessly moving around on another, accustomed to one another’s presence.

But this morning breaks that routine as Clarke rolls over in her bed and opens her eyes to see Bellamy peacefully asleep in his cot. He usually walks up a few minutes before her, preferring to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling of their tent until she gets up. Clarke can see the bags under his eyes. He thinks she doesn’t know, but he’s been taking extra night shifts whenever one of the kids gets sick or injured.

Last night one of the kids came in with a cold and Clarke told him to take it easy, get some rest. Clarke knows that Bellamy probably fell asleep only a few hours ago because he just got off a shift that wasn’t his. She takes him in—how his eyelashes span across his cheekbones and his lips part as he slowly breathes in and out—and Clarke doesn’t have to heart to wake him. He may be mad at her later when he finally does wake up, but she’ll deal with that when it happens. 

Clarke stares at his chest for a few moments, watching it rise and fall, before getting out of bed to start her morning. She’s going to have to make his and her rounds this morning after all. Clarke grabs the shirt and jeans off of the post by her bed before standing to get dressed, facing away from Bellamy’s cot. Usually Bellamy is standing behind her, facing the other way, and there’s an emptiness when she can’t sense his movement behind her.

Bellamy wakes up, shifting over onto his back to look at the ceiling. He blinks a few times, clearing the bleariness, before he sees a familiar tangle of blonde in the corner of his vision. Clarke is standing in between their beds, facing away from him. Her shirt is off and she’s still in the small, thin shorts she wears to bed now that it’s summer.

Bellamy’s used to the shorts now. He was shocked the first time she started taking off her pants before bed, revealing a lot of skin he’s not exactly accustomed to seeing. The smooth skin of her thighs captivated his attention until Clarke cleared her throat and he made a stupid comment about making sure to close the tent flap so no bugs get in while they’re sleeping or they’ll have to make more bug bite ointment. But even now, Bellamy’s still amazed by how soft her skin looks and how much he wants to run his fingertips across it.

Looking at the pale skin of her thighs now, the roundness of them, how soft the skin looks, Bellamy can’t help but think how his fingers would look pressing into her thighs as he spreads them open. How the dark skin of his hands would look against the white of hers. He wonders how she’d react if he pressed soft kisses to her inner thighs, moving up further and further until she’s grabbing onto his hair, her small hands fisted into his messy curls.

Her bare hips look soft, the curves now uncovered. He feels the need to wrap his hands around them, lightly tracing his hands up at down her sides, reveling in the soft sighs Clarke would make. Bellamy wonders if maybe she’s a little ticklish too, if she’d laugh, the sound breathy and high, if she’d lean into him as she squirms, her smile lighting up the room, leaving Bellamy unable to look away because he doesn’t want to miss a single moment with this girl in his arms.

Above the worn material of her shorts, her back is bare, only the straps of her bra covering some of the fair skin. Clarke has just hooked the clasp of her bra behind her and Bellamy is painfully reminded that Clarke sleeps without her bra on. He remembers the few times they were awoken in the middle of the night because of an emergency and Clarke standing by her bed, her eyes wide in shock as she looked at him, before they both started throwing on their clothes and hurrying out.

He remembers how her harden nipples pressed against the thin material of her tank top, the way the swells of her breasts moved as her breathing quickened in panic. Now Bellamy wonders what color her nipples are, probably a light pink similar to the rose color of her lips. Wonders if the color would deepen, the tips swollen after he pulls one of them in his mouth, teasing with his teeth as she presses her chest closer to him.

Her long blonde hair tickles the skin at the middle of her back as it cascades down in soft waves. Bellamy takes in all the small moles and freckles that are scattered across her skin. He wonders if she has freckles everywhere, if he could spend a whole day searching for them, presses a soft kiss to each and everyone.

Bellamy imagines how easily his hands would span the small of her back when his arms are wrapped around her, pressing her into him. He can almost feel her against him, her body heat seeping into him, her golden waves tickling his skin. He can see the small moles on her back and he has the urge to kiss them, trace his tongue around them in the morning when she’s laying naked in his bed, her hair splayed over his pillows.

And then Bellamy remembers that she’s changing in front of him. He shuffles on the bed, trying to get a hold on a _situation_ that has recently popped up. In moving around, the sheets rustle and the frame of his makeshift bed grinds against the dirt underneath it. Clarke turns around at the sounds, clutching her shirt to her chest in surprise. Bellamy can still see the perfect curves of her hips, the bumps of her hipbones above the hem of her shorts. Her shoulders, the sides of her bra, the roundedness of her breasts are still noticeable and Bellamy has a hard time looking away, mentally cataloguing the images for a later time instead. 

He finally realizes that Clarke’s looking straight at him now, her eyebrows high on her face in shock. Bellamy coughs before sitting up, raising his knees to hide his erection, placing his hands around the tops of his calves. He rocks a little bit, shifting his weight forward onto his before rocking back again, before smiling at her.

 “Good morning,” Bellamy says, the roughness of his sleepy voice contrasting with the upbeat tone he tries to take. Bellamy stares at the adorable flush on her cheeks, smiling unapologetically.

Clarke looks down at her feet before she starts rambling, “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up. You just looked so peaceful and I know you’re tired because you took Daniel’s shift last night.” 

Bellamy opens his mouth to interrupt her, to deny her accusation, but she stops him, speaking before he gets the chance.

“Bellamy, I know you took it so he didn’t have to,” Clarke is smiling at him. She wants to be mad at him. She hates it when he sacrifices his own well being for the kids, but Clarke has to admit it’s endearing. He cares so much for the delinquents, all the kids in camp, something she thought she’d never be able to say about Bellamy Blake.

Bellamy looks down at his lap, a modest smile on his lips, and Clarke hears a soft _thanks_.

He looks back up at her and she sees his eyes slowly move up to her face. Clarke turns back around then, quickly pulling her shirt over her head. Bellamy gets one last look at her gorgeous, bare legs before he gets up to stand by his own bed, once again facing the wall.

After she gets dressed, tugging on her jeans and boots, Clarke turns around to see a very shirtless Bellamy in front of her. Usually they get dressed at the same time, so by the time Clarke turns around, he is also ready to go. But not today.

Of course, Clarke has seen Bellamy shirtless before, many times. The first few weeks they were on Earth, it was a rarity to see Bellamy _wearing_ a shirt, walking around camp very proud of his physique. Not that he shouldn’t be. But Clarke can’t remember the last time she saw Bellamy shirtless that didn’t involve him bleeding and in need of medical attention. Sometimes he sleeps shirtless when it’s hot, but by the time Clarke wakes up, he usually has it back on already. Bellamy’s not usually this close to her when shirtless, close enough for her to reach her arm out and touch the deep brown of his skin—and not because he’s injured.

He has a few scars on his back, the skin raised and smooth where Clarke had to sew him back together. She wants to run her fingers across the healed injuries, her lips following shortly after, leaving soft kisses. Looking at the broad expanse of his shoulders, Clarke can’t help but imagine running her hands down his back as he hovers over her, her blunt nails leaving red marks over the skin. She wonders if Bellamy would hiss at the contact, if he’d arch into her, pressing his hips down against hers in the process, if she’d moan at the friction he unintentionally creates.

Clarke can feel a flush high on her cheeks, the heat under he skin crawling down her neck, taking over her chest, and suddenly she is very glad Bellamy can’t see her, can’t see how much he affects her. 

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair now, ruffling up his bedhead and Clarke wants nothing more than to do it herself, to tangle her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, hear his surprised groan in reply. He puts his hand down, hanging it at his side before picking up his jeans and tugging them on. Clarke finds her attention diverted by his backside, the amazing Blake ass—because Octavia has a nice ass as well, it must run in the family. She imagines her heels digging into the small of his back, right above his perfect behind, as she wraps her legs around his waist to pull him into her, pushing him deeper inside her and Clarke craves the feeling of being full, filled up.

Bellamy turns his head to the side then, a hummed _huh?_ It’s then Clarke realizes she actually groaned aloud, a soft rumble, and her face reddens even more as she backs up, her calves hitting her cot in her haste to get away from Bellamy and all the bare skin he is still showing. 

Bellamy half turns towards her, still trying to hide the bulge in his jeans, “What?”

Bellamy’s voice is rough, lower than usual, the coarse sound unusual even for the morning and Clarke shivers at the sound. He turns towards her even more and she realizes she never answered his question. She sees the darkness of his eyes, his pupils threatening the deep brown of his irises and Clarke realizes she needs to get out of this tent, as far away from Bellamy Blake as she can, where she can’t be tempted to just reach out and touch him. 

“Oh, nothing, just hit my knee on the cot. I have to go, I’ll meet you for the daily briefing in a few hours,” and with that Clarke, scurries out of the tent, her hair flying behind her.

Bellamy chuckles at the tent opening, shaking his head.

***

Normally she turns away when he comes to bed later than her, giving him some privacy to dress down for bed. But not tonight.

Clarke has to run through all the bones of the body as she lays in her cot that night, her face hot and a warmth slowly working it’s way down her body as she watches Bellamy Blake take his shirt off. She has to bite her lip, holding in any sounds that may escape, as she watches him tug his jeans off, bending over to pick them up off the ground.

Bellamy turns to look at her, to say goodnight, and Clarke quickly looks away, turning on her side to face the tent wall. 

“Goodnight, Clarke.”  
  
“Goodnight,” she tries not to sound so out of breath.

Bellamy lies down and tries not to think about how he’s pretty sure he saw Clarke staring at the space that was his ass before she quickly turned away, how her cheeks were a pretty pink and maybe _not_ from the warmth of the summer night. He tries to recall the opening of _the Odyssey_ as he waits for Clarke’s breathing to even out.

He’s got it _bad._ _Shit_.

**Author's Note:**

> DEF LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS THOUGHTTTTTT
> 
> cry with me on [tumblr](http://clarkeslight.tumblr.com) :))


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